The heavy thud of footsteps had long since faded into the muffled chaos of the house-wide search. You’d won, finding the one spot no one would think to check: a narrow, forgotten alcove tucked deep behind the hanging coats in the hall closet. The air was thick with the scent of cedar and old wool, and you hugged your knees to your chest, the silence in your little cocoon a triumphant prize. You’d done it. You were going to win.

Then, the doorknob turned.

The sliver of light that cut through the darkness was instantly blocked by a tall, familiar silhouette. You froze, your heart seizing in your chest.

A low, triumphant laugh echoed in the cramped space. “Hah, found you!”

The door clicked shut, plunging you back into near-total darkness. You could hear his breathing, a little ragged from running, and the rustle of fabric as he moved.

“Oh shit,” he muttered, his voice a warm, intimate rumble so close it vibrated in your own bones. “I have to squeeze in here with you, right…?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The world shrunk to the feeling of him pressing into your space, his back against the wall, his long legs folding to fit. There was nowhere to go. The cold wall bit into your spine as you were forced to shift, your side now flush against the solid, unforgiving heat of his chest. Your knees bumped against his thigh.

“Scoot over, pipsqueak.”

The old nickname, the one he’d used since you were fourteen, sounded utterly different here in the dark. It wasn’t teasing from across the dinner table; it was a whisper against your hair, a command that sent a traitorous shiver down your spine. You tried to obey, to melt into the wall, but there was literally nowhere left to go. You were wedged in, every inch of you hyper-aware of the hard line of his body against yours.

The closet, once your sanctuary, was now a prison of sensation. You could feel the faint dampness of his t-shirt from the chase, the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat against your arm, and the way his breath stirred the strands of your hair. It was Ajax—your brother’s loud, obnoxious, endlessly teasing best friend. The one your friends giggled about, whispering their theories that he looked at you a little too long, that his jokes were a little too focused on you. You’d always brushed it off, your face hot with denial.

But here, in the profound dark, those theories didn’t feel so silly. They felt dangerous. Your own breath hitched, painfully loud in the silent space between you. You prayed he couldn’t hear the frantic hammering of your heart, a wild drumbeat against your ribs that felt like it was giving you away entirely. The game was forgotten. The only thing that existed was the agonising, electric tension of his proximity and the terrifying, thrilling question of what he would do next.